Jerry Hadley

Alex Frey's close friend, the tenor Jerry Hadley, shot himself with an air rifle last Tuesday and died July 18. Alex is organising the New York tribute to Hadley. The Guardian has an obituary here.

1 degree of separation from Lisa

My dear dear friend Alex Frey has been telling me about the extremely fabulous Lisa, who does highpowered matchmaking among companies. He also tells me she loved The Last Samurai.

"She should find me an agent!" I say. "Tell her to find me an agent!"

Alex seems not to see this as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for Lisa to match a great writer of our time with a great agent of our time. He says Lisa does not find people jobs.

Alex and I then have a conversation about God. Alex believes in the existence of God. I believe in the existence of Lisa. I also believe I know what would count as existence or non-existence of Lisa, and I believe I know what would count as evidence one way or the other. I do not know what is meant to count in the case of God. This seems too much like religion by tombola. Everyone pulls something different out of the tombola; what matters is not WHAT is pulled out of the tombola, the important thing is pulling SOMETHING out of the tombola. The important thing is to believe in SOMETHING. If the time spent in schools on English orthography were devoted to philosophy, might we see a world where as many people thought logically as now spell "receive", "separate", "siege" and "seize" correctly?

I remember a story about Bertrand Russell. Russell gave a lecture on the history of philosophy to a general audience, which included a reference to the cosmological theory that the world rests on the back of a giant turtle. Russell pointed out that the theory had a problem: what was the turtle standing on? An old lady at the back shook her head in violent disagreement. She came up to Russell after the talk. "You think you're very clever, young man. But it's turtles all the way down!"

When one deals with the publishing industry one finds oneself so often in the sort of discussion where "turtles all the way down!" is brought out in triumph. A hyperheadhunter, I think, might find a head which did not do this.

Alex Frey and Tristram Shandy

An Air Force officer recently back from Iraq came up to Berlin for a few days. The blog immediately took on a Shandean impossibility, in which 10 hours' solid writing might do justice to, say, the wealth of incident in a single hour. I blamed Alex Frey. Alex has an inexhaustible supply of stories about remarkable people; they deserve a wider public; each day the blog fell further and further behind -- and what was worse, I knew Alex knew it. When a man spells the names of the people who feature in his anecdotes you know he is checking up on you; when he starts introducing anecdotes with the sinister phrase "This would be good for your blog" you know he is not impressed with what you have achieved so far.

The fact is, of course, that this is a man who needs a blog of his own. In the meantime I thought of the next best thing: he should write a guest post for MY blog. THIS would be the way to catch up on all the stories about Bernstein, the Queen, Princess Anne, the Queen's chaplain, Garrison Keillor, Oscar Levant--

I was sent drafts of the guest post yesterday. Halfway through the afternoon we met briefly at Yorckschlößchen, Alex on his way to Spandau to buy a new set of tails for his concert in Mexico. (The post had not yet been published.) 'Is it OK?' asks Alex. 'You don't think there's too much about Montezuma's Revenge?' 'Oh no no no no no,' I say. But I am lazy about publishing, the day drifts by -- and in the morning I find that all this procrastination actually worked! Alex has started a blog of his own! And he has launched it with the guest post for this blog! Only minus Montezuma's Revenge! So you can read it scatologically here or unscatologically there -- the choice is yours.

Ladies and gentlemen, the one and only Alexander Frey.



This, believe it or not, is my first blog. I’ve read blogs before, usually written by friends of mine. But most others I’ve seen wear down my patience because they seem to drone on about inane things.

For example, a famous violinist wonders in her blog how elevators seem to know whether to go up or down.

If I were so inclined, I might ask how a solid ball of lint winds up in one’s belly button at the end of the day.

The mind boggles. Or, should I say, bloggles. Hopefully I have more relevant wanderings to explore.

With that inane and self-serving preamble I’ve just written, let me start.

Here beginneth the blog:

I am to fly to Mexico this coming weekend to conduct a marvelous orchestra. I performed with them a few months ago as piano soloist in the Vivaldi Concerto in A-minor, followed immediately by Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue-the quintessential American piano concerto.

My trip in March was memorable for two reasons: the first being that I enjoyed making music with this great orchestra; the second being that I came down with the so-called well-known intestinal illness referred to as “Montezuma’s Revenge”, with the typical symptoms of severe cramps accompanied by diarrhea and nausea or both (I experienced the first two). Because of my current marital problems, I can’t help but wonder if Montezuma was a woman.

Anyway, the only time I wasn’t crapping on the toilet was when I was sitting on the piano bench rehearsing or performing, which was very merciful indeed. The calming effects of music. Shortly before my first performance, as I was changing into my tails (or “frack” in some countries), I received an urgent signal from my intestines telling me that I must run to the bathroom very quickly, but I didn’t quite make it to the toilet in time. After cleaning up the mess, I changed into my concert clothes and walked to the stage entrance. The concerti went well and I walked back onstage to play an encore.

I know I’ve given a really good performance when I feel as if I’ve gone through a catharsis. That first Mexican concert proved indeed to be especially cathartic because I once again ran into my dressing room and flew to the loo. This time, my ass arrived punctually on the toilet seat where I remained for the entire second half of the concert which consisted of Prokofiev’s 5th Symphony. Because the dressing rooms are right behind the stage (in my case, behind the entire brass section), the rumblings of my bowels were mercifully covered up by the fortissimos of the trumpets and trombones. I must admit that the Prokofiev sounded especially wonderful in the bathroom. Bathrooms are known for their fine acoustics.
Helen DeWitt invited me to write this guest blog. It’s her fault, really. Helen, as we all know, is the brilliant author of The Last Samurai. She is also my neighbor and great conversation companion.

We meet almost everyday in the well-known Yorckschloesschen, a legendary restaurant know for its artistic cliental. The place is modeled after an establishment that one might find in the French Quarter of New Orleans. It has a wonderful outdoor beer garden where we all sit during warm weather. Since Helen has begun frequenting the restaurant, she has brought some of her writing colleagues in tow. An interesting bunch, for sure. I took Garrison Keillor there for lunch once.

My father was also an excellent writer, as seen in the legal briefs he authored as well as the letters he wrote. He read voraciously, often reading 3 books at the same time, their pages bent in the corners and containing copious handwritten notes in the margins, reflecting Dad’s musings on certain passages, or cross-referencing other books and thoughts.

My father was an ardent fan of Ernest Hemingway, having read everything that the mercurial author had written as well as every available Hemingway biography. Some months after Dad’s death, I visited the Hotel Ambos Mundos in Havana where Hemingway had lived for awhile. I took the wrought-iron elevator to the 5th floor where he resided in various rooms at different times. One can stay in any of those rooms as a hotel guest. I honored my father by wandering around the place and soaking up the atmosphere. I felt that he was there, too, enjoying the experience with me.

In Cuba, the average salary for a citizen is about 5 to 15 dollars per month. However, I am convinced that two of the wealthiest people in the country are the old lady and old man (not the Old Man and the Sea ) who are the dedicated pianists in the lobby of the Ambos Mundos. Each day, their tip glass is filled to the brim with dollars. Even though much of Havana is poor, the populace does receive excellent and free health care. Many of their doctors go to the United States or Europe for their medical studies and residencies, and then return to Cuba to work in the hospitals. I’m told that the University in Havana is superb. Certainly the music is, heard live in every bar found on almost all the street corners, It’s a pity that the Bush administration doesn’t want Americans to travel to Cuba. It’s not actually illegal to visit the country. What is illegal is spending American money there. But those dollars are the joy of every pianist who performs during the days and mysterious nights in the lobby of the Ambos Mundos.

Alexander Frey